


Something Sentimental

by Cat_Francis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1438603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat_Francis/pseuds/Cat_Francis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hears a song on the radio that causes him to reflect on his feelings for a certain female pathologist. Much to his irritation, he has no choice but to admit that he is, grumpily, in love with Molly Hooper. *Set sometime after His Last Vow* (Rating is just to be safe)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Teenage Dream" cover by Boyce Avenue

**Author's Note:**

> To avoid confusion, song lyrics are in bold and Sherlock's thoughts are in italics.

 

 

 

Mrs. Hudson had been in cleaning again. Obvious from the smell of lemon that still hung in the air and the sound of the radio playing softly in the background; she turned it on whenever she cleaned her own flat but apparently she had found Sherlock's to use this time and had forgotten to turn it off. He wasn't even sure how she had found the infernal thing; it had long disappeared under piles of case documents, sheet music and old coffee mugs.

She had always been adamant that she wasn't their housekeeper, but Sherlock knew better. She doted on him and he doted on her, in his own way, though that mainly consisted of him allowing her to do things like clean his flat while he was out. He had just returned home from a crime scene and needed to think. That mean the music needed to go. Besides, there was a reason the radio had been buried under mountains of paperwork: more and more the stations seemed intent on drowning their listeners with mindless songs from the latest pop culture media darling or (even worse) sappy love ballads; Sherlock didn't go in for sentimentality.

_It's not even real music_ , he thought as he saw his violin resting on his chair.  _If I wanted to listen to music, I'd write it myself._

**I think you're pretty without any make up on**

The words made him pause, hand resting on the "off" switch. An image of Molly flashed through his head.  _What?_  He needed to go to his Mind Palace to think about the case, this was not the time for idle thoughts. Especially idle thoughts about someone who didn't matter.

Except she did.

She mattered so much more than Sherlock cared to admit, even to himself. He had thought it would be enough, permitting himself to acknowledge her importance in his life. Even going so far as to tell her, asking her to help him with his most daring plan to date. But it hadn't been. Through the two years he spent in hiding, Sherlock had come to see what the people he had surrounded himself with really meant to him. It's true what they say, about not knowing how much you appreciate something until it's gone. Or someone until you're not allowed any contact with them. John, of course, and Mrs. Hudson he had missed terribly. But Molly. Molly who had always been there, Molly who had come so far out of her shell, Molly who could elicit an apology from him when few others could.

**I knew you got me when you let your walls come down**

Sherlock moved the violin from his chair, absentmindedly, and sat down in its place. Isn't that what he had come to realize two and a half years ago? That he relaxed around Molly even more than around John? John was constantly ready for another case, another adrenaline rush of danger; Molly was safe and predictable and  _boring_ , his cynical side pointed out,  _dull_.

**Before you met me, I was alright but things were kinda heavy,**   
**You brought me to life**

She had been the first one to know about his drug habit, so long ago and still not long enough to forget. He supposed, in light of more recent reactions _like slapping me in the face…three times_ , she must have been angry back then but not brave enough to show it. She had cared, though. Sherlock knew that - she had made him promise that he would talk to her if he needed. He hadn't, obviously, because he didn't need her. Then. Rather, he didn't believe he needed anyone; just a steady stream of cases to occupy his mind, that's all.

But the cases hadn't been enough. Looking back, Sherlock could see how she had made him want to be better. Molly, especially back then, would never have thought to say anything to him about the drugs, but he had seen it in her eyes. The disappointment, the concern.

He had seen it again when John had taken him in for the drug test, except she wasn't the same person. She had been angry and more than that. The anger was new, but the other things were familiar and he had found himself hating it. He hated letting people down and he had disappointed her the most. She was so different from The Woman. Irene Adler was big and bold and in your face and selfish; she knew what she wanted and how to get it and didn't care how many people she trampled. Molly was so quiet and soft and gentle. Maybe that's why it had taken him the better part of a decade to realize how he felt about her. And a slap in the face. Or three. It had shocked him and in his surprise, he had reverted back to 'automatic': insultingly deducing the people around him. It was a verbal tick, his version of words such as "like" or "um". He was using them to buy time to reconstruct his impenetrable mask of permanent disdain for the world, for ordinary people, even though none of them in that room were anything less than brilliant.

**I finally found you, my missing puzzle piece,**   
**I'm complete**

She had forced him to look at her, to see her. And he was shocked by what he saw: someone he was used to impressing who was not only angry, but profoundly disappointed in him. He was used to that from John and Lestrade ( _Gary?_ ), even Mrs. Hudson on occasion. But never Molly. She adored him and he had gotten used to it, liked it even. She was someone who would do anything, forgive anything, for a smile and a fake compliment.

But they weren't fake. Never had been.

Obviously, that was how they had sounded because he didn't know how else to treat her. She wasn't like John who would get angry and storm out, but would always come back; she never left in the first place. But she was loyal. She wasn't like Lestrade who, half the time, didn't understand that he was being mocked at all; she knew full well he manipulated her and she allowed him to do it. But she did trust him. She wasn't like Mrs. Hudson, who had a rather coloured past and took 'herbal soothers' to ease, perhaps, more than just physical pain. But she was kind and cared about others and how they felt. She wasn't like The Woman, who was fully aware of her body and used it as a weapon; Molly didn't know the effect she had been having on the detective's subconscious for years. But she was undeniably pretty. Not strikingly beautiful, just pretty in a way that made you want to make her smile.  _I want her to smile because of me. Not because of Moriarty (serial killer, not nearly as clever as I am). Not because of Lestrade (Grover?). Not because of Tom (what did she see in him anyway?). Because of me._  These thoughts appeared as naturally as if they had always been there, just waiting to for the right opportunity to present themselves.

Apparently, Molly had found her way to his heart and his heart ( _bloody traitor_ ) had just let her in. That was why he hated sentiment. But, Sherlock was nothing if not logical and he had to admit that, beyond all reasonable doubt, he was in love. He was in love with Molly. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective was in love with Dr. Molly Hooper, pathologist.

He slowly stood from his chair, carefully replaced his scarf around his neck, and gracefully pulled on his Belstaff. He had to tell her. Hopefully then he would be able to concentrate on the case. Except she was sure to ask where this revelation had come from, what it had been prompted by.

He would come up with a plausible story on the way; there was no chance he was going to tell her than he had needed a pop song- no, a sappy, acoustic cover of a mega-popular song from an artist who had written it to appeal to those in the throws of their first serious crushes.  _Is that what I am now? A teenage girl in need of love poetry to sort out her feelings?_

Definitely a cover story on the way. He hurried down the stairs, not bothering to be quiet.

"Off out again, dear? You just got home. I was making tea," Mrs. Hudson called from her flat at the end of the hall.

"Yes, there's something I need to do at Bart's. Something," Sherlock ground his teeth at the word he was forcing himself to say, "sentimental."

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "You? Sentiment? That's a first."

"Yes, well," he replied tersely, irritated for having to admit it in the first place. He just wanted to go, tell Molly that he was in love with her and then get home so he could finally, finally get to work on the latest case. He opened his mouth to continue, but found that no words came out. He couldn't think of anything else to say so he just left, Mrs. Hudson's laughter still in his ears as he caught a cab to St. Bart's.


	2. "You Don't Know You're Beautiful" by One Direction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As before, song lyrics are in bold and Sherlock's thoughts/Mind Palace scenes are in italics.

Approximately ten minutes later, the cab stopped outside St. Bart's Hospital. Sherlock paid the driver quickly, forgetting to take the change, and hurried inside the building. He unbuttoned the Belstaff, allowing it to flow out behind him like a cape. He walked confidently through the hallways, not bothering to notice the nurses, doctors, orderlies and patients who stared at him; he was too focused on Molly and what he was about to do.

He swung open the double doors of the morgue, having long ago memorized Molly's work schedule, and saw her for what felt like the first time. She was standing over a body, scalpel held in white gloves that weren't so white anymore. Her hair, as usual when she was working, was tied in a long ponytail. She had been working on this autopsy for a while, obvious from the way her shoulders were hunched and Sherlock supposed she was chewing on her lip, the way she did when she was concentrating hard. In the back of his mind, he wondered when he had stored away all this information about her, but in light of what he had just learned about himself, it suddenly seemed natural. All of this he saw in the second before she turned to see who had interrupted her.

"Oh, Sherlock, hi,"  _When did her eyes get that brown and warm?_  "um, did you forget something?" He crossed the room as she took off her bloody gloves and laid the scalpel down on the table.  _She was so tiny. And pretty. Very pretty. I'll have to adjust the one in the Palace._ "It's just, um, I'm in the middle of something."

Time seemed to slow down and speed up at once. He didn't answer her question. He didn't say anything. He couldn't. There was only one thing he could do: he leaned down, cradled her head in his long fingers and kissed her. He kissed her in the way he only just realized he had always wanted to. She kissed him back, trailing her tiny hands along the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

For a moment. Then she hit him in the arm. Hard. _Ah. Not the James Bond approach, then._

They broke apart. Sherlock was confused and a little irritated.  _Why did she hit me? What did I do wrong this time?_

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she asked, voice shaky and a little out of breath. Her eyes were wide with shock, and more than a little anger.

"I don't understand, isn't that what people normally do?"

"What people normally do when _,_ Sherlock? I have no idea what you're talking about, but no. It isn't. People do not just walk up to other people and kiss them for no reason," she said. Sherlock noticed the shaking was gone and the anger was taking over.

He was getting more confused by the second. Surely he had told her why he had come. He was almost positive. "Of course it isn't for no reason." This was not going the way he had imagined it. "Were you not listening when I told you?"

"When you told me what?" Molly was almost shouting now.

"That I love you," he responded, nearly matching her volume. There was silence.

"What?" Molly wasn't shouting anymore. In fact, she looked like he had hit her. She continued, barely above a whisper, "Sherlock, if this is you trying to get something from me, I swear to-"

"No, shut up."

"Excuse me?"

"Shut up. I need to think. I must have missed something. You're supposed to be happy and smiling and fluttery like a butterfly. But you're not. Why aren't you? What have I missed? I'm sure you were there when I told you…

* * *

Sherlock, seated in a cab and watching London pass by through the window, allowed himself a small smile at the revelation he had had.  _Molly Hooper_. His smile grew a tiny bit bigger as he delved into his Mind Palace to think of how he was going to tell her, well, everything. Within seconds, there she was. The Molly Hooper he had constructed in his Mind Palace. He hadn't even known she was there - quiet as a mouse - until she had slapped him for using drugs. Mind-Palace-Molly had woken up then and found her way out of her hiding place just in time to help save his life when Mary had shot him. Since then, she wouldn't leave him alone.

_"Hello, Molly."_

_She smiles at him, but says nothing. Dressed as she always is here, white lab coat, ponytail, light floral top, black shoes. And now, Sherlock notices, warm brown eyes that betray the intellect behind them._

_There is a flash and they are standing in Molly's lab. She is sitting at her desk filling out paperwork. Dull. He stands in the doorway, knowing he is illuminated by the sunshine through the window at his back and therefore in silhouette. She jumps._

_"Oh, Sherlock, hi."_

_"Hello, Molly. I've come to tell you something important."_

_"Yes?" her beautiful brown eyes were wide with hope and anticipation._

_"I'm in love with you."_

_"Oh, Sherlock."_

_They kiss._

In the back of the cab, Sherlock rolled his eyes, annoyed at his imagination for coming up with something so ridiculous. He shook his head as if it were an Etch-A-Sketch he wanted to reset. This would not be a scene from one of those movies Mrs. Hudson was so fond of, but (for some reason) always crying over. He closed his eyes. Molly was there, waiting for him.

_"Hello, Molly."_

_There is another flash and they are back in the lab—_ no, morgue, that's where she would be— _morgue. It's chilly but Sherlock doesn't notice. She keeps on staring at him with those eyes of hers. He wishes she would stop; he can't think of anything to say._

_"Oh, Sherlock, hi."_

_"Uh, Molly, I've been, um, thinking." He swallows hard. It hurts. The words hurt. They're stuck in his throat all together. Why hadn't he used that cab ride to think of something to say? Stupid sentiment; it gets in the way of the important stuff. Like putting together coherent sentences. "I've been thinking about, uh well,-"_

_"The case?" Molly finishes._

_"No, not the case," Why is she making this harder? "I've been thinking about, um, about you."_

_"Me?" She looks nervous and suspicious, then her face falls. "Oh. What do you want?"_

_"What?"_

_"You only think about me when you want something, so what is it? Just ask. Don't be manipulative. Just. Ask." She frowns. Not a good sign._

_"No, I don't_ want _anything."_

_"Fine, what do you need then?" Finally! A question he can use._

_"I need you."_

_"You're not going to jump off a building again, are you?" Is she making a joke? Hard to tell._

_He smiles broadly, "No, Molly. Not this time. This time I need you. Just. You."_

_"Why?" What does she mean, 'why'? Isn't it obvious?_

_"Because, Molly," deep breath and take the plunge, "I love you."_

_"You do?"_

_"Of course. Isn't it obvious?"_

_"Uh, no. Not at all."_

Once again, Sherlock shook his head. That wasn't right either. She was smart enough to catch on quicker than that. And there was no way he'd be that flustered. The cabbie had turned the radio on, just quietly. Sherlock was about to complain, but he had other things to worry about right now.

_"Hello, Molly."_

_A flash. Once again in the morgue. But he's alone. Molly enters through one of the double doors, head down, reading a report of some kind. She sees Sherlock and jumps, dropping her paper and blushing._

**You're insecure, don't know what for**

**You're turning heads when you walk through the door.**

_It's like seeing her for the first time, but she's familiar too. Same long ponytail, same brightly pattered shirt underneath the same lab coat. But how has he never noticed her eyes before? They're remarkable._

_"Oh, Sherlock, hi," she says smiling._

**Baby, you light up my world like nobody else**

_He can feel his face getting hotter and his heart beating faster._

_"Did you forget something from when you were here earlier?"_

_How can she be so calm? Can't she see the effect she's having? She walks past and her hair swinging along her back looks so smooth that Sherlock nearly reaches out and runs his hands through it before he stops himself. What's going on? Is it always like this when you're in love?_

**You don't know you're beautiful**

_That's it! Sherlock's mouth drops open in shock, with the strangeness of_ knowing _something he hadn't before but didn't suspect he needed to._

_"You don't know."_

_"I don't know what? Why are you acting funny?"_

_"The song, Molly! You don't know you're beautiful."_

_"Wait, you listen to One Direction?"_

_"No- what? I don't know what that is. Stop interrupting, I'm trying to tell you something important."_

_Molly stifles a giggle but lets him continue._

_"But you don't, do you? You don't see how beautiful you are."_

_"Because I'm not-" Molly says, no longer giggling but self-consciously playing with her hair and staring at the lino floor of the morgue._

_Sherlock grabs her shoulders and spins her around, forcing her to look at him. "But you are, Molly. That's just it. You are beautiful."_

**If only you saw what I can see**

**You'd understand why I want you so desperately**

_Her eyes are so close now. They're the colour of chocolate. Sherlock wildly wonders if her lips taste the way her eyes look. He leans down and whispers, "Molly Hooper, I love you" and kisses her gently on the lips. They do taste like chocolate._

The cab hit a pothole and the thump jolted Sherlock out of his Mind Palace. That was far too easy, but he was starting to like the kissing part. Maybe he would start with that; he was sure he knew how Molly felt about him and so, he was sure that she wouldn't mind.

_"Hello, Molly."_

_Back in the lab this time; the morgue was too cold for something so warm, too dead for something so alive._

_"Oh Sherlock, hi."_

_He crosses the room in three strides of his long legs. He leans down, cradling her head in his long fingers and kisses her. Gently. Treating her now the way he wishes he'd always treated her. Molly is surprised, but she kisses him back anyway. After a moment, he pulls away._

_"Molly, I've been thinking-"_

_"I guessed you might have been."_

_Sherlock smiles; his girl - for so he had already begun to think of her - was so smart. "Was it the kiss? I'm afraid it's a little obvious."_

_Molly laughs and Sherlock's heart doubles its usual rate. "I've told you before, Molly, that you mean a lot to me. I've known that for a while. But what I didn't know, was how much. Those two years I had to spend away from London were the hardest of my life. I had expected to miss John, Mrs. Hudson, even Lestrade and the cases he brought me, but I didn't expect to miss you. I missed your warm smile and the way you were always willing to help-"_

_"Because you gave me fake compliments and thought I wouldn't notice."_

_"No, but Molly, don't you see? They were never fake. They probably sounded like that - I'm not good at complimenting, you might have noticed. I apologize. Really. But I did mean them. Every single one."_

_"What about The Woman?"_

_"Distraction. Part of the game. Of course she was beautiful, Molly, but it's such a harsh, selfish beauty that tramples over people to get what it wants._

**You don't you're beautiful**

**That's what makes you beautiful**

_You're so different. You're kind and compassionate and you care about people. You want them to care back. Well, Molly, this is me caring so much about you that it's taken me this long to see it. I was seeing without observing."_

_She stretches up and kisses him happily. He smiles and kisses her back, enjoying her weight in his arms; it just feels right._

He sat forward in the cab as it pulled up in front of the hospital.  _Yes,_  Sherlock thought decisively,  _that's what it will be like. It's perfect._

* * *

"I'm sure you were there when I told you…Oh." Sherlock's stomach dropped to the floor. "That was to Mind-Palace-Molly."

"Mind-Palace-Molly?"

"Never mind that," Sherlock took a deep breath. He had expected this to go so differently and it was all his fault. "Molly, I apologize. I was rude and, and, horrible. Forgive me. I should have explained. Will you allow me to do that now?"

"Fine," Molly said, crossing her arms.

"I am in love with you, Molly Hooper. This is not a ploy to get something from you and I know you thought all those compliments were fake. But they weren't. It just took me some time to realize it, that's all. I see now that I was wrong to treat you in such a way, and I'm sorry. This is nothing more than a confession of feelings of which I think you deserve to know."

"Sherlock, I don't know what to- Where is this coming from?"

"I-"  _Am I really going to tell her? Probably honesty is the best choice, though._  Sherlock cleared his throat, put on his most authoritative voice and said, "I heard a song on the radio."

Molly smirked and Sherlock felt his face grow hot.  _Blushing? Never._  "A song?"

"Yes, Molly, a song. Mrs. Hudson had been in cleaning - she thinks I don't know, but I do - and she had forgotten to turn it off and then there was the cab and-"

"What song?"

"What?"

"What song? What song could possibly- I though you didn't like, oh what do you call it? Um, sentiment."

"It seems you are the exception, Molly. And, if you'll pardon the pun, it's quite the exceptional achievement."  _A pun? Did I really just try to make a_ pun _? It's not even a good one._

"And you are an exceptional man, Mister Holmes," Molly said, smiling a little, still unsure of how to act.

"Then, Miss Hooper, from one exceptional person to another, would you like to have coffee?"

"Tea. Bit of milk, no sugar. I'll be in my office." She turned smartly on her heel and walked across the room to the doors and, just like that, was gone.

 _No, what? What could I have possibly done wrong? She had been smiling; why did she leave? It was that bloody_ pun,  _wasn't it?_  Then the penny dropped, so to speak.

He dashed out into the hallway, only to find her leaning against the wall, trying not to smile, eyebrow raised.

"For the world's only consulting detective, you can be an idiot sometimes."

"You were joking."

"Of course I was joking. Coffee would be lovely-"

Sherlock had leaned down and kissed her again, gently and carefully. He could feel her smile and kiss him back. And this time, she didn't hit him at all.


End file.
